


Questions of Lineage

by entanglednow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy elements, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Non-human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2382725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John no longer has any idea where his trousers are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questions of Lineage

**Author's Note:**

> Me and GoldenUsagi are writing a story every month where Sherlock is something other than human. This is my story for the month, GoldenUsagi's story [Gentry](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2382620) explores the same theme.

There had been a lot of rules concerning the official meeting. They'd been written out on a very official MOD checklist, that John had read three times, and then folded carefully and put in his trouser pocket for safekeeping. Lots of rules, which he'd memorised, several of them had even been underlined in red pen, John assumes by whoever had printed them out to pass around. He remembers those ones most of all. Don't shake hands, don't promise anything, don't lie, don't accept food or drink, and don't have sex with anyone from the land of Fae.

They'd all been important, they'd all been careful warnings to avoid diplomatic incidents and bodily harm. Though John's having more trouble than he wants to admit remembering them all right now.

He could check, he supposes. John's fairly certain that the rules are still tucked neatly away in the pocket of his trousers. Unfortunately he no longer has his trousers. He no longer has any idea where his trousers are. His trousers are missing. As are most of the rest of his clothes. All of the rest of his clothes really. He has misplaced his clothes...possibly on purpose?

His knees hurt, his neck hurts, his genitals hurt, his mouth tastes like candyfloss and bees - or how he imagined bees would taste, sort of fizzy and sweet and fluffy. His ear feels as if there may be a bee still in it. None of which he has the immediate explanations for.

He has a worrying feeling that he broke several of the rules that had been written down on that carefully printed MOD checklist, for his benefit and protection. Because he's fairly sure he got drunk on fairy wine in the woods, and then had sex with someone he shouldn't have done. Someone he was probably going to get in trouble for, when the inevitable explanation and missing trousers report is made. There is a missing trousers report looming in his future.

Unfortunately at the moment he's not sure filling in any forms is going to be much help. Because there's a large and fragmented section of yesterday which is stubbornly refusing to make itself known. The morning and most of the afternoon are clear enough in his memory. If his memory is still to be trusted. The amount of careful preparation that goes into meetings with 'non-human allies' is both terrifying and mind-numbingly dull (though John isn't entirely sure you could label anything from Fae an 'ally' no matter how friendly they got.) But there was a lot of careful talking, during which nothing much was actually said, a lot of staring, and a lot of standing around at careful attention, mostly for show. There had been enough people in the diplomatic party from the land of Fae that John hadn't been able to commit all their faces to memory. Including several floaty women (he assumes they were women, the lines are blurrier for them than they are for humans) with constantly shivering wings that made John feel like he'd taken hallucinogenic drugs. Quite a few striking, mostly-naked - and very friendly - people that looked like they were made entirely of leaves and cobwebs. John had been afraid of accidentally brushing them in case they crumbled to bits. There were some tall, sharp, alien-looking creatures, that John's fairly sure were the actual diplomats. Also some people who looked a bit like frogs. They hadn't spoken, just croaked at people who ventured close, eyes swivelling disturbingly. Knowing the Fae they could actually have been frogs, confusingly rendered in a human-sized bipedal form simply for their amusement.

Even with all the preparatory training and exposure to the biology of Fae citizens it had all been a little...overwhelming. But John knows he wasn't unprofessional enough to get drunk, and he was very careful about not accepting anything offered in his direction. He'd read all the warnings. If anything he'd been over-prepared for any mind-altering substances or unexpected seduction.

Which is why this is very confusing and upsetting.

The last concrete thing John remembers is talking to a man, after the first formal introduction, a man dressed in black, strange eyes, deep voice, blunt sort of rudeness about him. He'd made John laugh.

It's all a bit of a mess after that.

He does remember talking at length about a mystery surrounding the house the diplomatic function was taking place in, old stories of disappearances by the lake that John had heard no one had ever solved. He remembers explaining it on a long walk round the grounds, he's fairly sure that he insisted they solve it. Later he may have fallen in the lake - or been attacked by evil water creatures? His memory seems to become unreliable then.

He's not sure if any mystery was ever solved. His brain contains a lot of nudity after that. He remembers very long legs, and a voice that had vibrated all the way through him, and it hadn't shut up no matter how hard John kissed him. He remembers wanting things he'd never even thought about before, and that rough rumble of laughter that didn't refuse a single one of them. Sharp fingers, and the taste of bees in his mouth. The leaves had stuck to John's skin, and he'd found the unfamiliar planes and angles of the other man fascinating and enticing. The very long naked man, with astonishingly blue eyes had berated him constantly and John had rather liked it.

John had had sex with one of the Fae, when he'd been expressly told not to, and he'd done it repeatedly, and by all accounts enthusiastically.

He pushes himself to a sit and finds the early morning air much colder than the grass he'd been lying on. There's a mist creeping around the treeline by the lake, and the big house looks oddly small from where he is now. He also finds the long-limbed, blue-eyed, still naked stranger watching him with a curious sort of patience. Heat curling off of him, hair an odd sort of black-blue. There's little chance of John pretending that perhaps he'd ended up with another human being, through unforeseen magical circumstances. No, this stranger is most definitely not human. Naked and male and very not human.

"This is all very bad," John says immediately. Which seems to croak out of him as some sort of prophetic announcement.

The words get him a gently raised eyebrow. The stranger's mouth does something soft and amused, that John is horrified to discover he finds attractive. He makes himself look away.

"I don't usually sleep with men." John feels compelled to point out. Which if they were human would be horribly rude, but the world doesn't quite make sense yet. "Fae, people...strangers." It's really not getting better, no matter how many words fall out of his mouth.

"Sherlock," the man adds, when that seems to be a useful piece of information. "Not entirely a man, and there was no sleeping on my part, though I suspect that's not relevant to your current difficulties."

"You gave me fairy wine," John accuses. Which he thinks he should be significantly more angry about, but he still feels sort of 'I've swallowed bees,' and Sherlock is unnervingly close in a way his body seems to find familiar and agreeable. It's been a very long time since he'd done something so stupid.

"No, you drank my wine, by mistake."

Which confirms - if there was ever any doubt - that his new friend is indeed from the Fae lands. He still seems a little too amused by John's obvious discomfort.

"And you didn't feel like telling me, or taking it away from me."

The other man raises an eyebrow as if it had honestly never occurred to him.

"No, should I have done?"

"Yes." That doesn't seem enough. " _Yes_. You should have done."

"Curious. I wanted to see what would happen, and I wasn't disappointed. You kept calling me amazing, asking questions, you were interesting...adventurous."

John can't quite stop the tangle of embarrassment and confusion that comes on that.

"Not during the sex," Sherlock clarifies. "Before all the sex. I rather liked it. You were insistent, unexpectedly daring. Most of you are very boring indeed."

A worrying thought suddenly occurs to John.

"Are you reading my mind?"

There's a slow, lazy blink.

"If you like."

John shakes his head. "No...no, I wouldn't like, please, I wouldn't like that at all."

"Very well."

It occurs to John that it's too cold and too strange to be laying naked at the edge of a giant lawn surrounding a country estate, talking to a non-human man he's unexpectedly, intimately familiar with. Besides, he's fairly sure he should have reported in hours ago - or possibly bloody years ago? These things can get complicated very quickly.

"Do you think you could look a little more...human." John would gesture at something specifically but he's not exactly sure what about Sherlock's face is off. He just knows it's not quite...normal. "I know you can, so could you, please?"

"I thought I was doing quite well." Sherlock sounds disappointed - and then John's not really aware of him doing anything, but suddenly the shadows in his face are less stark, less fox-ish, the features more balanced in a way that doesn't make John's spine tense.

"And a little less naked maybe?" he adds, not sure why he makes that a question.

Sherlock manages in some way to look offended, and John remembers rule twelve, or possibly rule thirteen, one of the underlined ones, definitely one of the underlined ones.

"Not that you don't look very handsome as you are, in a...sort of way. It's just that public nudity is sort of frowned upon."

"What a fussy, pedantic people you are," Sherlock mutters, and John gets the impression it's not the first time he's voiced that complaint.

There's a sudden phantom gust of wind, that coalesces out of nowhere, horribly unnatural and completely black - and then Sherlock is wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and a woollen coat with the collar pulled sharp and high. A scarf - that looks briefly made of bird feathers until it settles into some sort of silken material - slithers round his throat. It leaves him looking no less animal than before, but significantly less naked, which was mostly what John had been aiming for.

"Would you like some clothes too?" Sherlock's voice sounds warm through the scarf, deep and amused.

John suspects he's being mocked, gently, politely. Though he's more unnerved by the sudden reminder that the creature beside him can do magic. Laughing in the face of the laws of physics in a way that terrifies every government on earth. But he would very much like some clothes right now.

"Yes, I think I would like that very much. Thank you." He thinks he's ready for it, but when Sherlock raises a lazy hand towards him he can't help the way he flinches away. Sherlock makes a short noise that seems disappointed, or perhaps mocking, and flicks his fingers out.

It's very quick, a little like being touched inappropriately _everywhere_ , and then ending up dressed afterwards. John's afraid to touch his new clothes at first, in case they melt away...or bite. He ends up sitting there with his hands held out vaguely in front of him, wearing what has to be a confused expression.

"Interesting," Sherlock decides.

John's not sure he wants to ask what's interesting, or why, he rather thinks he's in enough trouble already. That's he's done enough to get himself put on a list of people who'll never be approached for anything of any significance in the future. He might as well just pack up now and salvage whatever he can from this.

He works himself to his feet, and his clothes feel odd, though he's not quite sure if that's his imagination or the fact that they're made from some sort of strange, insubstantial fae fabric. Some sort of untrustworthy material that he feels compelled to get out of as soon as possible.

"I have to go," John says, which seems both the best thing to say and the most horribly insufficient thing he could possibly say in this situation. He's completely forgotten the appropriate words for saying goodbye to one of the Fae without accidentally promising them your firstborn, or agreeing to marry them, or giving terrible offense that will mean his family will suffer for twenty generations. "It was nice to meet you," he adds, some combination of politeness and caution trying to salvage the situation.

Sherlock continues to look like he's finding John entertaining, in a way that John likes to think - or hopes, desperately hopes - isn't threatening. He heads off at a stumbling walk towards the house. When he looks behind him a few feet further on...Sherlock is already gone.

\---

John checks in as soon as possible, but nothing comes down the pipe, no reprimands, no humiliating safe sex talks concerning Fae anatomy, no pregnancy tests, no stern words of caution, no disappointed dressing down masquerading as a discussion on morale. He seems to be in the clear. And looks to remain so, unless he confesses personally to inappropriate conduct with a member of the Fae court. Which will drop that whole complicated mess in his lap, and probably end up as gossip round the whole base.

No confession then - unless he turns out to have been brainwashed, cursed, impregnated or promised in marriage to some sort of goblin king for the rest of his life -  that very much isn't going to happen. He's seen a few people discharged on medical grounds after unwise selections of sexual partner from another dimension - he's pretty sure spines were involved. John was lucky, he was very lucky, that Sherlock was at least human-shaped, and not poisonous, or infectious, or lethal. So he decides if he keeps his head down and pretends the whole thing didn't happen then it's probably best for everyone.

Though it takes him two days to stop suppressing a flinch every time a door opens behind him.

It takes him six days to force himself to relax every time someone summons him, and a week after that before he stops expecting to be summoned.

Either he's in the clear, or the universe is just waiting for him to stop looking behind him.

\---

It's three weeks later when John's left to stand for an hour in an empty office, with no intel, waiting for some sort of nameless government official to arrive and - no one has actually told him, give him a commendation, berate him, discharge him, execute him on the spot?

The man who enters is vaguely familiar to him, but John really doesn't keep up with politics. He has no interest in any of it, but he knocks up a polite, blank face that's good for all occasions. He's less certain he'd picked the right face when two armed men drift in behind him, silent and careful and - he suspects - employed at positions significantly above his pay grade.

"Sergeant Watson,...er, at ease, that's the right thing to say, isn't it? Please, not quite so formal." There's a wave of hand and a smile, as if the man expects him to comply straight away. But John doesn't feel much like relaxing. "I'm Andrew Drummond."

The man ignores the two armed men in the room with the ease of someone who's well used to ignoring people that he believes aren't currently important. He slides behind the desk at the centre of the room, and fits himself into the large, leather chair behind it. But John has trouble forcing himself to focus on him, when the silent trail of someone who isn't human suddenly appears beside the second chair, and moves silently around the office. The tall newcomer is dressed in black, and he ignores them both in favour of drifting over to the bookshelves and fingering the spines, in a lazy, careless series of strokes. He's alone - which is generally frowned upon. Usually any meetings between humans and the Fae are conducted with escorts, and treaties, in safe spaces.

"This is...my sincerest apologies." Drummond looks both apologetic, and embarrassed. "There was a guide, but I'm afraid I can't pronounce your first name. Not in a way I believe would do it justice, and I'd hate to risk offense."

"Sherlock will suffice," Sherlock offers elegantly, as if he doesn't care in the slightest. He's finally drifted to stand next to John, towering more than he'd expected above him, beside him, close enough that John wants to inch away. He forces himself to stay exactly where he is. This is all completely out of the ordinary and John doesn't like it at all. He suspects he's in trouble. He suspects it may be more trouble than he'd originally thought.

"Of course, Sergeant Watson, I'm sure you've been told already that we've had some progress recently in our negotiations with the Fae. Contracts drawn up, tentative collaborations enjoyed. Which is the reason you're here today."

John hadn't been told. He hadn't been told anything, but he thinks it best if he just nods and lets the man continue. Though he's immediately ignored in favour of the tall Fae next to him. Drummond seems to be having trouble looking away. Bewitching people is supposed to be illegal, but since Fae don't feel like human laws apply to them, and human beings can't really do anything to them, save take an iron poker to one of them and likely risk immediate and abrupt termination, 'illegal' in reality tends to mean 'frowned upon.' A lot of things are frowned upon, and nothing much is done about it.

"You requested Sergeant Watson, is that correct? We do have far more qualified choices, if you'd like to look through them?"

John's staring straight ahead, so he doesn't see whatever Sherlock offers in that strange pause. But it makes Drummond clear his throat.

"What I mean to say is that this is all very unexpected. Sergeant Watson was never on any approved lists for possible partnerships?" Drummond spares a glance in John's direction. He thinks he should be insulted.

Sherlock spares him more than a glance, John can feel it, but he's very pointedly not looking at him.

"We've met before," Sherlock says, voice suddenly warmer in a way that John thinks is practiced more than genuine. "His behaviour has been more than satisfying, and we got along marvelously. I found him interesting and adventurous."

John's fairly sure that the Fae can't lie, but he knows their powers of prevarication are legendary. And if they slide any closer to the truth of their familiarity John is going to be in a lot of trouble.

Drummond fixes his attention back on John, with some difficulty.

"There you have it, Sergeant. You seem to have fallen into this quite of your own accord. Though this will be an incredible opportunity for you. For all of us really. To break down some of the barriers of mistrust and fear."

People mistrust and fear the Fae for damn good reasons. The massive power imbalance being the most pressing. The kidnapping, sexual predation, and constant bewitching of members of the public are a few of the others.

John stares at Sherlock warily. Sherlock stares back. There's a very strong suggestion that he's a man who gets exactly what he wants. John wonders if there's a polite way of saying that he doesn't want the job.

"Do I have any say in the matter?" John manages. He's certain he already knows the answer to that.

Drummond makes that odd throat-clearing noise again

"Sherlock is a very important guest of Great Britain," he says stiffly. As if he thinks John might hold some sort of unsavoury opinion about the Fae. "We will, of course, accommodate him to the best of our abilities."

John finds himself heading quickly into a much less accommodating mood.

"Yes, Sir."

"I have so far been impressed with Dr. Watson's abilities," Sherlock says seriously, and John honestly can't tell if he's making a joke, being suggestive, or subtly threatening him. His face doesn't seem to work quite like a person's. For all John knows it could be all three. None of the options appeal to him though and he frowns annoyance in Sherlock's direction - when Drummond isn't looking.

Sherlock seems to approve, god knows why.

"Fantastic to hear, Mr. Sherlock, fantastic. So I can assure the Prime Minister that your partnership is sealed. Sergeant Watson, you should follow Sherlock out once we've formalised things, he's already been given accommodation in London."

"Of course I should," John says, because he can hear the way this entire conversation goes if he protests. He's pretty sure he's already lost it in a hundred twisty political ways. He suspects that if he presses someone will make it an order.

"Good." Drummond claps his hand together, and then gestures in their general direction. "Very good, shake on it then and we're all sorted."

John stiffens and immediately wonders exactly how informed this idiot is on the Fae and their customs. If he shakes Sherlock's hand they'll enter into a contract, and the thing about contracts with the Fae, you can't get out of them. And there's always fine print.

"Come on, Sergeant Watson, we're all friends here."

John forces himself to lift his hand, stiffly. He holds it in Sherlock's direction, teeth clenched.

Sherlock's hands remain in his pockets.

"Oh, that won't be necessary," he says. "I'm aware of the undercurrents of coercion you believe are involved in our practices. I'm sure a...verbal agreement will suffice for the time being."

 _For the time being?_ John reclaims his hand, curls it into a fist.

"Really?" Drummond says curiously, then seems to collect himself and turns to John. "You see, Sergeant, we're perfectly capable of learning to work together. Leaving old grievances aside."

He seems to want an answer to that.

"I hope so, sir."

Drummond doesn't relax until Sherlock is gone - not by the door but by very slowly vanishing from the extremities inward. John's not entirely certain whether he is actually gone or not. But Drummond hunches in slightly like he believes it to be true. The man looks tired and out of his depth without Sherlock around. He pushes a file across the desk, towards John.

"Your contract with the Fae, which I will imagine you'll be expected to familiarise yourself with, and accept at some point."

John feels vaguely sick.

"I'm led to assume you have some experience working with Fae." The assumption sounds more like a hope to John's ears.

"Not so much working with them, sir. I've read the material, I've been to several diplomatic functions." Which mostly involved standing around and attempting to have as little contact with them as possible. "I'm aware of the main houses, and most of the lands they inhabit."

"You should try and make the best of things," Drummond says thinly. "I would imagine."

That sounds a lot like an apology, as if he expects John to end up dead, or worse. John thinks he should find out at the earliest opportunity what exactly it is he's going to be doing with the Fae.

Sherlock's waiting for him outside, which is unexpected, since John took half an hour to read the file in the foyer. John had expected the Fae would want to be out of London at the earliest convenience. All the iron and steel and smoke tended to put them off. Sherlock has his scarf pulled up high over his mouth, staring up the street with narrowed eyes.

"The file said something about working crime scenes?" John tries, since they're going to be working together. "That's not really my area."

Sherlock's head turns on his neck, birdlike.

"No, it's mine. We already have someone working with the police in your world." He pulls on gloves that John would swear for a second are made entirely of shadows until they actually meet his fingers. "Your world is rather tedious, though you people can be creative and devious in your own ways. But there's little to be gained from me examining your crimes. No, we'll be working on the other side. You'll be assisting me."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You're coming to Fae, with me, to assist me in 'crime solving' in the Lands of the Undying, The Inverted Worlds, The Fortress of Apples, The Forests of Blood and Teeth -"

"Yes, I'm aware of the names," John says firmly. He realises he's speaking too fast, breath rushing out of him, pulse thundering in his throat and his mouth. Because this is insane. "But people don't go to Fae lands, not on purpose. People don't - time moves in strange ways, it's dangerous for humans to go there."

_There's no way out..._

"Yes, it will be very dangerous I expect. You like dangerous...you liked me." There's a sideways glance, teasing and curious.

John's reminded, sudden and unwelcome and confusing, of exactly how much he had liked him.

"Don't mention that," John says, instinctively looking around to make sure no one's close enough to hear them. "Just don't. That isn't - I'm not doing that again. Seriously, never."

"Never is a very long time," Sherlock concedes. "And there is a lot of magic in the Fae lands."

"That's coercion, it's not consent, you've been told, also I'm not going to eat or drink anything if we go there."

"That's a misconception. You may eat, if you wish, simply don't accept food from another. It's something of an...invitation to persuade you to stay."

"No one's been to Fae and come back the same age, or sane, or in one piece, I'll probably be dead in less than a day."

"I won't let any great harm come to you if it's in my power to prevent it...I swear it," Sherlock says at last, and John is about to snap back that he doesn't even know him, when he realises that Sherlock just made a bargain with him. An unbreakable bargain that could have dire consequences should he fail to be true to his word.

Sherlock looks taut suddenly, eyes fixed on John. This thing, this impossible, unlikely partnership may be more important than John understands.

"Alright." He breathes out, suddenly cold and overwhelmed at the enormity of it. But he's willing - god help him. "I'll go with you, how do we get -"

The rest of the sentence is stolen from him, when Sherlock's fingers curl round his hand, and London just melts into smoke.


End file.
